The Steward and the King
by gauchadeutsche
Summary: Just before the Steward Ecthelion's passing, he receives an unexpected visit from a man he thought dead. One-shot.


**The Steward and the King**

_I own nothing, and I am not making a cent from this story. Enjoy, and please leave some feedback if you're so inclined._

_Year 2984 of the Third Age_

The Steward of Gondor leaned back in his chair with a hacking cough. The Master Healer had left him to see to his other patients, so there was no one to frown or insist he take a foul-tasting brew for his illness. The aged man tried drinking some warm cider with hands that shook, then picked up his quill again when the coughing had subsided.

"May I assist you, my lord?"

The Steward looked up in disbelief. He knew the voice at once; young, clear, and fearless as the man who owned it. He stood in the shadows of his doorway, wearing green and brown Ranger garb and a hooded grey cloak pinned by a rayed star.

"It cannot be," the older man whispered. "Have you come to lead me to Mandos, Captain?"

The Ranger chuckled. "Nay, lord," said he, approaching the Steward's desk. "I cannot lead you to a place I have never gone. I should get us hopelessly lost and destroy my reputation as a guide."

Ecthelion snorted. "I doubt that! You have a gift for achieving the impossible; but very well. If you are _not_ here to take me beyond this world, what brings you back to Gondor? We thought you long dead!"

The younger man smiled sadly. "I heard of your illness. I wished to offer my aid, or to bid you farewell if there was naught for me to do, my Lord Ecthelion."

"Ah, Thorongil," the Steward answered fondly. "I remember well your skill as a healer. But there is no healing for old age, as you well know."

"Is there nothing I can do to ease you?" the captain asked earnestly.

The Steward almost said no, then thought better of it. "My body is weak and worsening by the hour; do not trouble yourself with that. But you could set my mind at ease, on two points."

Thorongil stood up straight and laced his hands behind his back. "Command me, lord."

Ecthelion raised his eyebrows. "If you will have it so, Captain Thorongil. First, how on Earth did you get past the guards? If someone of your fame and stature can reach the citadel without a shout from the guards, we have a serious breach of security!"

The captain chuckled at this. "Blame them not, my lord. I have been a Ranger since my youth; I am well trained in the art of disappearing. I also found a secret passageway that leads from the sixth circle to a small cave halfway up Mindolluin. Does that comfort you?"

"Slightly," the Steward said grudgingly. "Will you hear my other point?"

Thorongil replied that he would, and gazed at Ecthelion expectantly.

"Then, lord, I want your solemn oath that you will claim the Winged Crown as soon as may be."

The Ranger's eyes widened in shock, and he opened his mouth several times, but could not find words. Ecthelion saw this and grinned.

"I don't know how you fooled us all," he continued dryly, watching different emotions play across the younger man's face. "The signs were plain as day; you are clearly a man of true Númenórean descent, from the North Kingdom, no less! You are a gifted healer, a matchless warrior, and a proven lore-master. Also, I have never seen a common soldier so comfortable amongst the court; and here I find you, taking orders from the man who should receive them from you!"

In that moment, the famous captain looked more like a sheepish child caught in a falsehood.

"My lord—"

"Nay, don't apologize for heaven's sake!" the old man said impatiently, his cough returning. "Your coming was a gift indeed; and, though it pains me to say it, I understand why you saw fit to hide your true identity. Our King is come again, he has saved Gondor from countless enemies, and we do not know his name!"

"Aragorn," said Thorongil humbly. "My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. But it was foretold that I should be named Elessar by the people of Gondor."

The Steward pondered this for a moment, then smiled. "I thank you for your confidence, sire. I go to my long sleep knowing to whom I can look for a return of Gondor's glory."

"I am not so confident," the hidden king protested. "The Council rejected my forefather Arvedui's plea, and he was a King in truth, 'til Fornost fell. Our people have dwindled; I am but a Chieftain of a wandering folk, raised by the Eldar and then by Rangers. Any comparison leaves me wanting."

"Arvedui!" Ecthelion scoffed. "He had a valid claim, to be sure, but his way of _demanding_ the crown annoyed the most powerful people in Gondor. _You_ have earned the respect of the South Kingdom as no king has before: through your own blood and sweat; the people adore you! Not to mention, you are a direct descendant of Ondoher through the Princess Fíriel, so you are heir to both the North _and_ the South."

"The time is not yet ripe, my lord. I will not start another kinstrife for a kingdom—or for two. I will take up the crown by the will of all Gondor, or not at all. Your own son distrusts me; he would not support me in the slightest, should I claim the throne now."

"Denethor is blinded by his jealousy," the old man growled. "But when the entire Council is in your favor, the boy will see sense. He _must_. Now, enough stalling. My last command to you went unheeded, Captain."

Aragorn moved around the large desk to kneel beside the aged Steward. Taking his frail hand in his, Aragorn kissed it.

"My Lord Steward, I swear that I will claim the Winged Crown if it be my fate, and protect Gondor with my life if it cannot be."

Ecthelion pushed back his chair, then knelt as Aragorn rose to his feet again.

"Then, sire, I beg leave to surrender my office as the Steward of Gondor."

Aragorn's eyes shone with unshed tears of pride and sorrow; pride that he had somehow instilled such loyalty in this man, and sorrow that his time was ending. "I release you from your office, Ecthelion, son of Turgon. You have my undying gratitude for your service to the South Kingdom. Be at peace."

Trembling, Ecthelion rose to his feet with Aragorn's help, and they walked slowly to his chambers. The former steward and captain spoke no more, but Aragorn kept watch as Ecthelion fell into a peaceful sleep. The line of Mardil still had their ancient gift from Westernesse; to give up their lives gracefully, when they saw their time had come. Ecthelion, having made his peace with the King and secured Gondor's safety, went to the halls of his fathers.

"Farewell, Ecthelion," Aragorn whispered, blinking back tears for the gruff old man who had taken him in as a favorite nephew. He kissed the wrinkled brow, and left the Steward's apartments, vanishing into the night.

When the manservants came the next morning, the Steward Ecthelion was found cold in his bed, smiling peacefully. No one had seen Thorongil enter, and no one saw Aragorn leave. The rod simply passed to Denethor, and business went on as usual in the White City, with a Ruling Steward holding office "until the King should come again."

It would be thirty-five years before the King would return to the White City, and fulfill his liege-lord's last wish. By then, the tales of Captain Thorongil had become legend; an inspiration to the new batch of Rangers and soldiers of the Tower. In Harad and Umbar, his name was spoken in whispers, as though saying it aloud would bring back the specter of the man who had so forcefully destroyed them.

* * *

_I hope you enjoyed that. =) I have no plans to expand on it, but I am working on a longer story about Aragorn's Estel and Thorongil years, so stay tuned for that!_

_Thanks for reading!_


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